Best day ever
by Dagron
Summary: His hands were literally turning into smoke. He... He was dying. God damn it all. He refused. He was too young to die.


**Best day ever.**

* * *

He was seven. He was seven and this was the best day ever.

The young boy, with his dark hair and loose fitting jumper, skipped merrily as they ventured around the amusement park. Flashy rides and colourful stands lined the walk as he merrily chewed on the sweet his grandpa, an easily convinced and forgetful sort had bought him to momentarily delay his excited nattering. It tasted sweet and doughy and so wonderful he could soar.

"Hold up, grandson," Grandpa chuckled, as he tapped his shoulder. "Let me see where we are on the map."

The sun had just begun to set. Large glasses were shoved onto a wide nose as the old man placed himself under one of the brighter illuminations. Optically enlarged irises started to scan the oft folded piece of paper, completely oblivious to the boy's doings.

His grin widened.

Quiet as a mouse, he ventured over to a nearby dark and empty alley. It stood out like a sore thumb in a place as busy and enlightened as this. Of course it tickled his curiosity. He skipped a step, trotted a second, and then paused after the third. He glanced back at his grandpa, lost in the distinctions between Tropical Land's Kingdom of Fun and the Water Park. It should be okay so long as he's not gone for long. His mind thus put to rest he ran the rest of the way into the dark, hiding a giggle with a sticky hand.

He never saw the man still wearing dark glasses despite the lack of sunlight. He didn't notice the high-school student who'd slunk into the dark alley just moments before. He barely glanced at the young woman who'd stumbled as her lace broke not far behind him.

When the grandpa finally looked up from his map, the boy was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

At first it seemed as though a fire was burning within his bones, liquefying their very marrow. The pain arching through every fibre of his being made the concussion he'd just suffered feel like a mere bump in the road. It scared him. It scared him to death. He struggled to open his eyes, to see where the fiend had gone, the devil who'd done this to him... Was he? He was. The bastard was tipping his hat at him, an insulting farewell only just reaching his eardrums over the loud thumping of his heartbeat.

Shit. His hands were literally turning into smoke. He...

He was dying.

God damn it all. He refused. He was too young to die. He, Shinichi Kudo, had yet to achieve the proper renown he sought. He would be the Sherlock Holmes of this age, come fire or rain. There was no way he was passing on to the next world so long as criminals could still sneer at him like that.

He was no mere boy detective.

He was no mere boy, damn it.

As his world went dark, and his fingers evaporated into the night air, dark droplets began to fall from the accumulating cloud. Soon the limbs went too, flesh and hair dissipating into shadow. By the time the skull and bones were consumed, the rain had turned into a sharp downpour, swamping the small work yard.

Dark things moved there that night, and, oblivious, a small boy delighted in the sudden downpour. He pulled off his shirt and danced, as though this was the water-shooting fountain he'd been playing in earlier. His laughter filled the clearing, only stopping as he felt a sudden chill run down his spine. His foot had caught on something.

"What's this?" He said, crouching down to poke at the soft material. "Oh, it's a jumper!"

The sudden rain stopped as quickly as it started, leaving the half-nude boy to shiver in the cold wind that rose in turn. Having discarded his own top with little regard to its location, he quickly slipped himself into what turned out to be a t-shirt inside a hooded jacket. Instead of warmth, he felt...

For the first time that day, tears of sadness swelled upon the birthday boy's lashes, a deep sorrow stabbing through his heart. He wanted to cry out, shout, and run to his grandpa's side. He never should have left. He should have been a good boy, instead of seeking adventure. He was only seven. It had seemed so much bigger than six not two minutes ago. He wished he was eight. He'd know what to do if he were eight. Instead he choked on his words, felt his knees give in as they landed heavily on the ground. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see, his vision blurred by something red and viscous. A hammering was ringing through his ears, he could smell smoke. Words, half-whispered, kept on repeating in his head. Farewell, boy detective, farewell...

For the first time since the divorce, he wanted his mum. He'd hated her with all his being for breaking dad's heart, for abandoning him knowing full well that dad had to travel far away for work. She'd left him behind with a forgetful old man who struggled with knowing which day of the week it was, and if he forgot to take his meds could barely count beyond nine. Still, faced with this unexplainable terror, he wanted her here. He vaguely recalled her being able to placate his fears at bedtime with a song... But no words, no tune would come to mind.

He wanted his dad. He wanted his dad to come save him so bad. His dad was a hero. He'd know what to do. He'd promised. He had promised that he'd always be there when it mattered. He'd been there on the computer screen, wishing him a happy birthday as he opened his presents. Surely he'd know to come save him now...

No mum. No dad. Not even the sweet, gold-hearted grandpa who doted much and seemed to take even his own failings in comfortable stride.

He was alone, soaked to the bone and frozen in fear as the cloud descended upon him. He didn't realize he'd lost consciousness until the policemen came. His eyelids fluttered open, but they didn't feel right. He didn't feel right.

"Hey, come here! We've got a dead body."

So I really am dead...

The thought, alien and intrusive, thundered through his mind.

"Wait, he's still breathing."  
"Call for a medic!"

More thoughts followed, one after the other. None of them were his, and none of them made sense.

He wanted to cry, he wanted to tell the policemen everything, how he'd found a scary jumper in a weird downpour and suddenly he couldn't control his body anymore. There was a strange man speaking in his head, acting as though his body was his, and frankly seeming just as alienated as he was by the whole experience.

His one and only hope now was his grandpa. Grandpa would find him. Grandpa, with his odd fixation on going to the temple regular to pray and all his silly ghost stories, he'd know what to do.

His one hope died when the policemen were carrying him to the Tropical Land infirmary. He saw Grandpa on the way. The tottery old man was in a state of upset that he'd never before seen him in, frantically accosting strangers, asking them again and again if they'd seen his grandson. You know, young man about this tall, just turned seven, short black hair and a cheeky grin?

Upon noticing the policemen carrying an injured boy, Grandpa had looked his way. Grandpa had looked him in the eye.

Grandpa did not recognize him.

This was officially the best day ever no more.  
And he couldn't even cry.

* * *

 **Fin.**

 _My other half mentionned how he thought this premise would be quite cool... And because I'd never seen it done, I had to write it._


End file.
